


There Goes

by BoStarsky



Series: Assorted Kylux [7]
Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward situations, Constructive Criticism Welcome, I blame Alan Jackson for this, I keep listening to country music and getting Clydeland feels, Lots of rain, M/M, No Beta, Rain, Stens is a hopeless romantic, beware of possible typos, not great, poor Stensland, porn written by an ace, practice porn, someone always cries when I write these two, thought I'd share anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoStarsky/pseuds/BoStarsky
Summary: West Virginia is not a place he ever expected to visit much less get stranded in with nothing more than twenty dollars to his name and a crooked blunt that’s dangerously close to breaking in half.





	There Goes

West Virginia is not a place he ever expected to visit much less get stranded in with nothing more than twenty dollars to his name and a crooked blunt that’s dangerously close to breaking in half. In all fairness it’s his own fucking fault he’s here, this poorly planned roadtrip where he was going to soar like a majestic condor all the way to New York and make something of himself. It was great, truly epic, until he got ditched by his ride at a rest stop. The vegan piece of shit didn’t even have the decency to leave him his one ratty bag. The one bag that contains all he owns and is now riding in the boot of the prius of a self entitled bitch who went ballistic when she saw his lucky rabbit’s foot.

It’s dark, not a single street lamp in sight, he's been walking for what feels like an eternity, worn converse not doing much to protect him from the rain damp road as he trudges on. A noise carries through the forest fencing him in, every horror movie he's ever watched immediately springing to mind. He's going to die out here. He's going to be murdered by a redneck with two teeth and turned into a raincoat. Why did he ever leave Seattle? He should have stayed where he was with his shitty apartment and comfy job. Right now he could be watching Dawson’s Creek, smoking a good bowl, having a right old time of it, but no. He just had to get in over his head again, Grady’s advice going out the window as he sailed on the high of life only to crashland here. There's no one around to see him burst into tears, wailing by the side of the road like some omen from a ghost story.

He hasn't seen a single car since he watched the pink prius carrying satan vanish into the distance, but at least the forest seems to be thinning out, or it might just be a trick of his mind before death overtakes him. Sitting down in the middle of the road is becoming increasingly tempting, welcoming his inevitable death which will be much less dramatic than he’d hoped. And just when this possibly couldn't get worse, it starts raining proper. The heavens open and what must be an entire lake’s worth of water falls out. At least he’ll be somewhat clean when he dies. It’s the little things.

Minutes away from giving up entirely there's a glimmer of light in the distance, some deity must have taken pity on him, either that or tired of watching him cry his way through the torrential downpour. It still feels like an impossible distance away, but at least there's hope.

The lack of traffic makes sense, what looks like a redneck congregation is apparently taking place in this stupidly named roadhouse. His fear of being turned into a coat doesn’t subside, but his need to sit down and be warm easily wins out. Feet aching and looking like a drowned cat he stumbles his way inside. It’s surprisingly subdued inside, cosy and welcoming, soft strains of country music drifting through the air, what looks like the majority of the patrons glued in front of the flat screen where a sport is being played. Digging his soggy twenty out of his pocket he collapses on a free bar stool to wait for the bartender while formulating a plan to look as little out of place as he can manage. Ordering something that’ll actually taste good is out of the question unless he really does want to die.

He's trying to think of the manliest drink he could order when a wall of blue fills his vision. This bar is manned by a mountain, an unfairly handsome mountain that's looking at him expectantly. He's too damn tired to care that he's staring, caught up in the most beautiful brown eyes in the world. Trying to speak results in something that can only be described as a squeak, his exhausted brain no longer capable of communicating with the rest of him. He gestures weakly with the twenty and the bartender smiles. Well, fuck. Of all the places in the world he could become infatuated with a man, this is possibly the worst, he's digging his own grave at this point, wishing he’d never left ireland. An ironically timed cheer rises from the flock by the tv.

Groaning, he buries his face in his sopping wet arms, no longer caring if he drips all over the spotless bar. Thinking he's been left to suffer it comes as a surprise when a glass is set down in front of him. Glancing up he finds the redneck adonis presenting him with a drink that's so ridiculously over the top it draws a smile out of him. It’s bright red, laden with a problematic amount of umbrellas and fruit, a stick of rock candy wedged into the mess along with a curly straw bendt into a heart. A smug little grin tugs at the corner of the man’s perfect mouth, he's obviously trying to keep a straight face, almost getting away with it too. It’s so damn adorable and he doesn't quite know what to do with that information, his brain betraying him by waxing poetic about the bartender who could probably snap him in two with those huge hands. Hand, he quickly corrects himself. Somehow the one robotic arm only makes him more perfect.

Brain eventually catching up he offers the damp twenty only to get another little smile. “On the house, Darling.” No power on earth or beyond could possibly stop the blush rising on his face, thankfully the bartender doesn’t give him enough time to reply, lumbering off to serve another customer before disappearing through a door at the back. 

Desperately trying to curb himself before this becomes a full on crush and he does something stupid, he takes a sip. Somehow this hulking redneck took one look at him and concocted perfection. It’s sweet, a little tart and strong, but not in a way that burns. Either he’s a mind reader or very good at his job. Both seem like unreasonable options considering where they are, so it’s possible this whole thing is a hallucination and he’s still wandering around in the dark waiting to become roadkill. 

He’s so lost in his own head that his surroundings blur and fade into white noise, abruptly cut off when a warm weight is draped over his shoulders. Jumping in surprise, he nearly falls of the stool if not for the strong arm gently righting him before continuing to drape him in a heavy wool blanket. It’s only then he notices how badly he’s shivering and stutters out a thank you. There's no way he won’t get a cold, he just hopes to god that it’s stopped raining when the bar inevitably closes.

At some point, he falls asleep, sprawled across the polished wood of the bartop. He's woken up by a gaggle of middle aged women laughing a few stools down, one of them wearing a sash proudly emblazoned with a sequined 50 while the rest toast her with pina coladas. Adonis is chatting with a stocky man in dusty dungarees. Who even wears that past the age of ten? The game on the tv must be finished going by the thinning crowd and there's just a hint of moisture clinging to his clothes so he’s probably been out for a few hours; so much for not sticking out, there's no way a snoring, ginger heap didn't draw attention. Still, he's somehow miraculously been left alone.

Everything is ok, for a little while. Mind pleasantly muddled with sleep, fuzzy in that good way. Then he remembers why he's here, that he's essentially bankrupt. No wallet, no clothes, no phone. It had all been in his bag, his bag that's miles away, forever gone. Probably sacrificed to the devil’s vegan counterpart. Tears are already prickling at the corner of his eyes, that familiar burn warning him that he should probably hide somewhere instead of crying in a room full of sweaty hillbillies bigger than him. 

He's surreptitiously wiping his eyes with a corner of the soft blanket, desperately trying not to look like he's on the verge of tears. Probably failing. Adonis catches him mid sniff while he's plotting an escape route, choosing between parking lot and toilet, weighing the pros and cons between the rain hiding his tears and wanting to stay dry. Blushing, he spares a quick thought to how pathetic he must look, he’ll probably get told to leave on account of being in touch with his emotions. But the bartender only looks faintly sad, like he wants to cry a little too. The other man says something, Adonis nodding along before elegantly sliding himself over the counter, showing off legs that go on for miles. The skinny jeans distract him for all of a second before he realises the bartender is heading towards him.

He must look terrified, Adonis approaching him as if he was a skittish animal. At this point he might as well be, death seems inevitable. If not from murder, then embarrassment from when he no doubt does something stupid in front of this god amongst men. 

Not one for words, the bartender just utters a “Come on,” in a slow drawl, gesturing towards the back of the roadhouse with his carbon fiber arm. Stensland follows against all better judgement, letting himself be lead into a cosy office. Not the worst place to die, he supposes. 

“What!” The bartender sounds alarmed, looking like somebody just told him to shoot his own mother. 

“What?” He puzzles back. Did he say that out loud? He did, didn’t he? Fuck. 

“Did you think I was gonna kill you?” He doesn’t look offended, more like amused and a little surprised, like he’s not aware of how intimidating he looks. A grizzly bear thinking he’s a puppy. “You’ll need to go to Ohio if you’re looking for Buffalo Bill.”

The joke takes him off guard, so far out of the left field it nearly flies right by him. It’s morbid as hell, but it’s something. He sinks into the nearby couch with a weak chuckle, really wishing he had his bong. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just having a shit day. Went and made a real haymes out of it because of a fucking rabbit’s foot. Fucking, vegan Satan in a pink Prius just up and left me in the middle of nowhere with nothing and then it started raining. My feet hurt, I’m hungry, I’ve just got twenty bucks and I’ve nowhere to go besides the afterlife. Never should have left Ireland, my mam never forgave it and now she’s dead and I can’t go back to Seattle without admitting this whole trip was a bad idea, so I’m just going to lay down and die with whatever pride I have left,” Adonis just listens showing no indications to any one specific emotion in reaction to his rant. “I’m Stensland, by the way.” He tacks on at the end because if he’s going to cry in front of this gorgeous specimen he should at least introduce himself. 

And cry he does, in the most ugly, snotty way possible, because of course he does. He’s never been one to cry gracefully, but if there ever was a time he wished he could, it would be now. The bartender shuffles awkwardly before patting his shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but comes out slightly more forceful than intended. He appreciates the gesture all the same. 

A few minutes pass, where Adonis is just shifting his eyes around while Stensland cries, before folding his long body down onto the low couch when the sobbing doesn’t let up. And for some inexplicable reason Stensland’s body overrules his brain and clambers onto Adonis’ lap, desperately seeking comfort from the only nearby source. 

It’s awkward, the bartender stiff as a board, frozen in shock at the snotty mess blubbering all over his shirt. He’s considering fleeing the situation and dying of embarrassment outside when a hand starts stroking his back, trying to sooth him the way you would a child. Oh no, he’s married with children. He’s made a monumental mistake by climbing into the lap of a married man who works at a honky tonk in fucking West Virginia, surely he’ll have changed his mind about killing Stensland now. If he didn’t feel so safe, leaned up against this tree trunk of a man he’d be legging it into the woods. 

When the tears finally stop he’s so exhausted, ready to pass out at a moments notice, he wants to, so badly. Wants to rest his head on Adonis’ meaty shoulder and just sleep for an eternity. He would too, if he didn’t know he was pushing boundaries as it is, he was probably brought in here so he could have a nap on the couch not sequester himself in a strangers lap, smearing snot and tears all over his shirt. What a fucking mess. 

“I got to go back to the bar, but you can stay here if you like,” Stensland takes it for the gentle cue it is and shuffles off his lap and into the corner of the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket, creating a shield between himself and the rest of the world. “I’ll get you something to eat.” Another, slightly too heavy, pat on the shoulder. The springs in the couch creak as he’s left to his own misery. He falls asleep before the bartender has a chance to return with the promised food. 

“Clyde said you was hungry,” He wakes up to a towering hamburger, tilting precariously on its plate, and it’s the most delicious looking thing he's ever seen, stacked with greens, cheese and bacon. The hand holding the plate belongs to the man in the dusty dungarees who’d been talking to the bartender earlier. “I’m Jimmy, Clyde’s brother.” The Adonis must be Clyde then, fitting, he’s built like a clydesdale.

He's still not entirely convinced he won’t end up becoming the next burger, but his stomach wins out, growling pathetically at the prospect of food. Uttering a “Thank you,” he takes the offered plate. It tastes as good as it looks. If all the food in the south is as good it’s a shame he hasn't been sooner.

“What time is it?” Suddenly becomes a pressing question when he notices the lack of noise from outside, the view out the lone window provides no other information than that it’s still raining.

“Little past three am, Clyde’s closing up.” Jimmy helpfully provides, spurring on further questions, like how long he's been asleep. He keeps those to himself, already feeling like a burden by still being here past closing.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’ll just get going then.” He finishes by cramming as much food into his mouth as possible. More walking isn’t exactly an enticing idea, especially not past three in the morning, but it’s not like he has anywhere to go or money for a motel, he’ll just have to walk until he can hitch another ride.

“Hey, calm down, it’s all right,” Jimmy soothes, “Clyde’ll take you where you need to go.” he's also pushing him at Clyde with little subtlety. No one is this nice, it must be a criminal plot of some kind, lulling him into a false sense of security. “Be seeing you now.” he gives a jaunty little wave, a clever shine in his eyes. Stensland’s heart hammers away, he's alone. Alone in a roadhouse, with a massive man called Clyde, a married man he crawled all over before he even knew his name.

It feels too much like a set up.

He finishes the burger, if he's going to die at least he won’t be hungry when he does. It’s a small comfort. By the time Clyde materializes in the room he’s almost fallen back asleep, he looks about as tired as Stensland feels.

“Ready to go?” This is it then. He follows Clyde through the empty bar and out into the parking lot where they stand on the porch for a while, looking forlornly at the rain still pissing down. They take off at a brisk jog, piling into an old pontiac, the last car in the lot. Would Clyde chase him down if he legged it? If he just ran as far as he could and hid somewhere? Probably. “You need a place to stay?”

“What?” that's not what he was expecting. How long is he going to drag this out?

“Well, you said you only had twenty dollars, that won’t get you a bed anywhere in this town,” Oh, well, maybe Clyde isn't planning to murder him, but pull a Morgan and use him to cheat on his wife. “I live with my sister if that makes you more comfortable.” Not married then, divorced maybe? And it does make him feel a little bit better that they won’t be entirely alone, besides it’s not like he has many options. It’s either going home with Clyde or walking.

“I don’t want to impose.” Isn't that what you’re supposed to say when people offer you a bed? He really does want to impose though, potential criminals aside.

“I’m sure Mellie won’t mind.” He's not going to argue that.

Clyde’s sister lives just outside of town in a working class neighbourhood lined with weathered, one story houses, a patch of lawn in front of each. It’s almost quaint, the house painted white, flowers lining the driveway. The windows are dark, curtains drawn, but Clyde is making no extra effort to be quiet, clattering through the house like a great big moose. Stensland at least tries.

He's never been one to instantly feel at home anywhere, but it’s hard not to feel welcome in this house. He always suspected southern hospitality was a myth, but maybe not, it’s like the building itself wants him to relax, to know that he's safe here. Embrace him in its warm walls and lull him to sleep. Then again, he might just be delirious from exhaustion or feverish from sitting around in wet clothes.

While Clyde is rustling around in a closet down the hall he wanders around, looking at all the pictures on display, the majority of which is of the three siblings. One of them holds an almost unrecognisable Clyde, shaved and stuffed into a marine uniform, next to it hangs a Purple Heart. There are a few of a kid, documenting her growth from newborn to now. Must be Clyde’s daughter, even though she doesn't look much like him, blonde, big blue eyes shining at the camera. She's very pretty, which comes as no surprise, everyone in this family is unrealistically beautiful. Compared to them he looks even more like a ginger beanpole than usual.

He's studying a picture of the girl when Clyde sneaks up on him, “That’s Sadie, Jimmy’s daughter,” he remarks. In the picture Sadie is drowning in pink ruffles, wearing a tiara that's nearly bigger than her. “She's a beauty queen.” The pride in Clyde’s voice makes him smile too.

Wait. Jimmy’s daughter? Then that means Clyde is free for the taking. No wife, no daughter, no consequences. Hope flares in his gut before he has a chance to tamp it down. Just because Clyde has no strings doesn't mean he’d be interested in Stensland, or men at all. Still, it doesn't hurt to try, Clyde doesn't seem like the kind of man that would break his spine if he tried flirting. What to do though? It’s risky flirting with a man in his own house, Stensland has no power here.

Steeling himself, he gently picks up one of the smaller tiaras sitting on the shelf next to the picture, rhinestones glittering in the light. It’s first now he notices how close Clyde is, practically standing on top of him, heat radiating across the inch between Clyde’s chest and his back. Their proximity gives him the courage he needs to turn around and gently place the tiara on Clyde’s head. It looks ridiculous, but he smiles all the same, giggling when Clyde does a mock courtesy, face as serious as carved rock.

Grabbing Clyde’s right hand he utters a “M’lady,” before kissing his knuckles. His hand is huge, like the rest of him. A promising feature. Clyde is blushing, ducking his head in a effort to hide his face behind his hair, Stensland feels accomplished, mostly because he’s still standing. 

He forgets he’s still holding Clyde’s hand until Clyde carefully threads their fingers together. Stensland finds it hard to believe that a man like this can be so shy, a gentle giant. It’s absolutely adorable. He's unsure of where to go from here, does he just flirt like he would with a woman or is there a different protocol for flirting with men? How does he do this without causing offense and getting his head caved in by a former marine? Luckily Clyde makes the first move, drawing him into a kiss that’s so soft it’s barely there, maybe he’s just as scared of rejection. 

There’s only a second of hesitation before he deepens the kiss, surprisingly enjoying the scratch of facial hair. Kissing Clyde is a nice contrast to waxy lipstick and sweet perfume, both is nice, but Clyde has brought with him the smell of the bar and it’s newness is making him more turned on than it probably should. He’s not entirely sure how far this is going to go, all the way, he hopes, still, it’s difficult to forget they’re not alone in the house. 

Clyde kisses like a shy teenager, like he had one snog while in high school and hasn’t kissed anyone since. It’s sweet, speaking of an innocence Stensland is almost ashamed to take, but this is a golden opportunity he won’t pass up. 

Using his free hand he slips open the top few buttons on Clyde’s shirt, asking for permission while his mouth is otherwise occupied. He doesn’t get told to stop so he continues until he’s one layer closer to skin, slipping his arm around Clyde’s broad waist to pull him closer. He could stand here forever, trading gentle kisses if that’s what Clyde wants to do, carefully inching towards something more.

It seems they’re both unsure as to what the rules are, mixed signals drifting back and forth. What does he do with the artificial arm, can he touch or should he not? Clyde seems to be equally hesitant on that aspect, whether for his own comfort or some other reason. This time he makes the first move, cool carbon fibre gliding underneath his fingers, he doesn’t get pushed away so he considers it a victory. Even more so when Clyde uses it to hold him in place, pressing them dangerously close together, he tries angling his hips away, but if Clyde notices he doesn’t say anything. 

A polite cough breaks them apart before his hands have a chance to wander further, a blush instantly colouring his face. There’s a whole lot of awkward shuffling for a few seconds before he dares to look up. 

“Nice tiara,” She quips, managing to look both surprised, salacious and proud at the same time. “Never thought I’d see the day. You been hiding in that closet so long, you started smelling like mothballs.”

“I thought you was sleeping.” Clyde looks appropriately ashamed of what they’ve been caught doing, once more hiding behind his hair. 

“I was, until you came barging in like a herd of buffalo,” Stensland is drowning in second hand embarrassment while Clyde’s sister teases him. “You know you got a bed, right?” She winks suggestively and Clyde turns red enough to rival a tomato. 

“Shut up.”

“You going to introduce me to your friend?” She crosses her arms, nodding towards Stensland who’s hiding behind Clyde’s massive shoulders, mostly to conceal his persistent erection.

It’s dead silent after he's been introduced, leaving him feeling more lost than ever. One night stands are one thing, getting interrupted by his hook up’s sister is something he's never made a contingency plan for. It probably would have been best for everyone if he’d run far, far away, getting murdered in the woods would have been less awkward than this. He's fairly sure that at this point Mellie is just trying to make them uncomfortable, he can’t honestly say he wouldn't have done the same if he’d been in her position.

The mood is probably as good as ruined so he can forget getting laid tonight. Hopefully the couch is comfy.

“Well, go on.” She finally takes mercy on them, smirking like she just uncovered a goldmine, retreating down the hall.

Clyde waits until a door closes, once more leaving them alone. “Shit, Stensland. I'm sorry.” He plucks the tiara from his head, putting it back on the shelf.

“Do you want me to leave?” He really doesn't want to, but feels he should ask all the same. He likes to think there's still hope, no matter how little. Even just a hand job or another snog would be great if Clyde is amendable.

“No.” It’s all the answer he gets before Clyde tugs him down the hall, glancing surreptitiously at what must be Mellie’s bedroom, and into his own room. It’s small and tidy, like Clyde never managed to kick his military habits, even the overflowing bookshelf is sorted with precision, not a single corner out of place. It’s almost uncomfortably tidy, making him feel self conscious for being such a mess. “I’m sorry for killing the mood.” Jesus, does he ever stop apologising?

Clyde looks debauched where he's standing in the doorway, hair a mess, lips swollen, shirt unbuttoned and partially untucked, and that's just after making out. Stensland can only imagine how he'd look after sex. He decides then and there that he wants to know, imagining isn't good enough.

“Then we revive it.” He says with a confidence he doesn't have, pulls Clyde into a sloppy kiss before he has a chance to reply. Please let this go well.

It does, thank the lord. Stensland likes being in charge, sex being the one thing he's decently good at and capable of leading with only a nudge in the right direction. Clyde appears to prefer it that way too, finding it easier to be led. He's still hesitant to go any further than some enthusiastic groping, carefully inching a hand up Clyde’s undershirt to feel the warm skin of his back. This is the last place he thought he'd end up and in a roundabout way he's grateful to vegan satan, he only wishes she could have dropped him a little closer to the roadhouse, spared him that long walk.

He's quickly brought back to the present, letting out an undignified squeak when a bold hand grabs his ass. If that's not consent to move it along he doesn't know what is. Undressing Clyde is like unwrapping a present, each inch of torso revealing more muscle than Stensland could ever dream of possessing, he's never felt skinnier in his life, acutely aware of how bony he is by comparison. Clyde must notice his sudden hesitation for he smiles shyly before removing his prosthetic in a gentle reminder that neither of them is perfect

It’s strange seeing him without it, finding nothing where a hand should be, still it does nothing to detract from him. It’s just who Clyde is and, if anything, it makes him even hotter. Stensland uses his newfound inspiration and shucks his own clothes before he can think too much about it, grabbing Clyde’s belt and pulling him onto the bed. He’s naked in another man’s bed, under said man and he's trying not to freak out, distracting himself with the skin bared to him.

Unbuckling a belt has never been more challenging, his hands clammy with nerves as he fumbles his way through it and into the ridiculously tight jeans that probably should have been a clue to Clyde’s interests. He shoves them down, taking the opportunity to feel up the ass hiding underneath. It comes as no surprise that it’s equally muscular as the rest of him. He can’t believe his luck, grinding up against Clyde’s massive erection, the hot, heavy weight of it causing him to shudder in anticipation for what comes next.

The night surpasses all expectation, leaving him drained and sated, picked apart by a gentle hand and a soft mouth, the taste of sex lingering on his tongue. Clyde is passed out next to him, hair sticking to his face with sweat. Stensland doesn't blame him for failing to stay awake, not after being pounded into the mattress until he was shouting in ecstasy, he's barely conscious himself. They ended up making more noise than intended, headboard slamming against the wall, he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so fucked out.

He wakes to the rolling sound of thunder, a white flash lighting up the room, still raining then. Clyde is tucked up next to him, warm breath ghosting across Stensland’s neck, he still can’t believe how lucky he is, his first time with a man and he somehow manages to snag a big dicked, redneck god. He almost wishes it hadn't been Clyde, that it had been someone forgettable, leaving just got more difficult. How is he supposed to move on from this? From something so much more than a one night stand. How is he supposed to move on at all, he'd starve long before reaching New York. Maybe if he got a job he could stay a while, get his feet back under him. He could see Clyde again. What if he moves on only to discover this was it, his one chance at love, the open door he's been looking for his entire life. It’s not worth the risk.

Chancing a look at his bedmate he finds hooded, dark eyes watching him. “Hi.” Clyde’s voice is gravelly with sleep and unfairly sexy.

“Hello.” He whispers back.

Clyde smiles, leaning in to kiss him regardless of morning breath. Stensland likes kissing, it’s one of his favourite things, everything from a quick peck to heated snogging, but lazy kisses in bed is the best he decides then and there. Just soft touches not leading in any particular direction. Clyde wants more, taking advantage of having a willing body in his bed. Stensland is all too happy to oblige when the discarded bottle of lube from last night is pushed into his hand.

This time they make more of an effort to be quiet as Clyde rides him, muffling their moans with kisses. Forget Morgan, this is the best sex he's ever had. Hopefully there's more in the future, he could spend an eternity between Clyde’s thick thighs if he'd let him.

Whatever real world rationality he's got left leaves him when he comes, spilled into the warm body clenching around his dick. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to. Fate finally dealt him a good hand and he refuses to waste it.


End file.
